


Snow Had Fallen, Snow on Snow

by Kivrin



Series: Welcoming Silences [56]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Domesticity, Established Relationship, M/M, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/pseuds/Kivrin
Summary: “When we’re working, you do everything for me,” Christopher says softly. “I suppose I want, at home… to do more for you. Even things you could do yourself.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).



Paul stands in the hall with his coat hanging open. “I said I’d do half.” He fights to keep his voice even, but the words still strike petulantly in his own ears.

“Not necessary.” Christopher unwinds the scarf from his head. The red wool glitters with beads of ice where his breath froze. He grunts softly as he reaches up to hang it on a hook, then starts peeling off his gloves. “No point us both getting chilled.” 

“No point one of us getting worn out -”

“Not _worn out.”_ He shrugs off his fishing jacket, shakes it on the mat, and hangs it beside his scarf. The grunt that comes as he bends to untie his boots isn’t quiet. “Used to it,” he says to his laces.

“From the regular blizzards that sweep the frozen tundra of Hastings?” Paul picks up Christopher’s snow-caked gloves from the shelf under the coathooks. 

“Not a regular occurrence, but not unprecedented.” 

Paul stares at the hunched figure. “I’ll put these by the stove to dry,” he says, and stalks away to the kitchen. Silently, he adds _you stubborn pillock_ as he knocks the gloves in the sink, then spreads them on the drying rack over the cooker. When he returns, Christopher’s stepped out of his boots and is slowly peeling off his jumper. 

“Thank you,” Christopher says mildly, before his head disappears behind the gray-green wool. He’s favoring his left arm, and holding his back very straight. 

Paul hangs up his own coat, then puts a hand on Christopher’s shoulder blade. His shirt’s damp, and the muscles beneath are taut. “You’re _soaked._ ”

“Glad of some exercise.” The words are muffled by the sweater.

A hundred things jostle for expression, but Paul presses his lips together and settles for: “Come through and get warm.” 

Christopher grumbles a little when Paul goes upstairs for slippers and a pair of dry socks, and more than a little when Paul kneels down in front of the settee to put them on him, but he also sighs in relief when Paul rubs his cold toes before pulling the socks up.

While he’s on his knees, Paul turns to poke the fire, and with his face averted, he says, “It’s my home, too.” 

“Of course it is. Paul. I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, what did you mean? What of it was most important, protecting me, or hurting yourself?” He risks a look over his shoulder. Christopher’s face is a blank of shock. “Don’t say it hasn’t hurt you. If I didn’t know about your arm, I’d worry your heart…” Paul turns back to the fire. “Damn it, Christopher.” 

The flames crackle loudly in the silence. Paul’s chest aches as if he’s been running, or as if he’s already heard the answers he imagines. _Nothing wrong with my_ or _Who are you to._ He prods the coals without seeing them. 

When Christopher finally speaks, it’s with none of those words. “Would you come here?” he says. “Please?” 

Paul stirs the fire one last time, knowing it’s petty and yet unable to stop himself. The smoke mingles with the smell of damp wool from the hearth rug and Christopher’s trouser cuffs. Paul stands, then lets the heat soak into his legs for a moment before he turns. 

Christopher’s eyes are open wide, the crinkles at the corners softened, the irises very blue in the firelight. His mouth is tight at the corners, but even. He holds out both his hands. “Sit with me?”

The settee is harder and higher than the armchairs: not as comfortable, but easier to get down to. Paul doesn’t take Christopher’s hands, but he sits. 

“I was wrong. You did say; we should, I should’ve, talked about it. Not just…” Christopher tips his head slightly. 

Paul looks at their feet on the hearth rug: Christopher’s worn slippers, his own twice-resoled shoes. A slipper won’t stay on his aluminum foot and changing the shoe on it is rarely worth the effort, but for an instant the lost comfort of stocking feet rankles along with everything else. He moves his prosthetic forward. “What did you think?” he asks, as steadily as if it were an interrogation. 

“I did think it was slippery on the pavement. And, there’s a trick to clearing under the railings.”

_“Railings.”_

A grimace. “Do miss Andrew being small enough to consider it a game.” Christopher looks at him seriously. “I was out of line, Paul. I’m really very sorry.”

“It’s not just…” Paul lifts his left leg again. “It’s…” He folds his hands, then unfolds them and spreads his fingers. “I owe you so much already. I _would_ owe you so much even if we weren’t…” The memory comes over him in a sick rush: the thud of his crutches in the suffocating silence of the house in Stone Street, the silence of Jane’s presence that was so much heavier than the silence that followed her departure. “I’d be weaving raffia baskets somewhere.”

The corners of Christopher’s mouth tighten and go down, and his eyebrows go up, and then he looks away. “Do you think so?” 

“Or I’d be filing reports and taking telephone messages. I’d almost rather the baskets. But you gave me work, and then you gave me a… life… to come home to, and when I think I can do one thing, one _little_ thing, you do that as well.”

“Oh,” Christopher says. His lips part and close. It’s quiet for what seems a long time. “Never thought of it as giving. Thought of what you’ve given up, what I’ve asked you to give up.”

Paul stares. “Given up?” 

“Your house. Old friends. Some… kinds of future.” His mouth tightens all the way across, and his eyes go to his desk in the corner, and the picture of Andrew there. 

“It’s not like that.” Now Paul puts a hand out and takes Christopher’s. The fingers are still cold but the palm is warm. There’s a barely-perceptible tremble that could be from either one of them. Paul swallows. 

“When we’re working, you do everything for me,” Christopher says softly. “I suppose I want, at home… to do more for you. Even things you could do yourself.” 

“I don’t…”

“Ring here. Go there. Ask that, check this, tell such-and-such to so-and-so.” Christopher shakes his head. “And that’s when you don’t know it and do it before I say a thing.”

Paul can see, if he tries, how it might seem so, but it’s never felt like that. “We both do what’s needed. For the job.” 

Christopher stares into the fire for a long moment, then raises his eyebrows and cocks his head slightly as he pushes his lips together. “Couldn’t do the job without you.” He brushes his thumb over the back of Paul’s hand. Paul wonders if they’re both remembering the same moment in Christopher’s office, after the murder at the White Feather hotel, the first time they shook hands, the first time they touched. “I’m sorry I did all the shoveling,” Christopher says.

“I’m sorry I was cross.” Paul shifts his hand to Christopher’s shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is nearly dry now, and when Paul presses gently where he knows the scarred muscles stiffen, he can feel Christopher start to relax. 

The smell of snow still clings to Christopher’s skin, even though his lips are warm. Paul puts his free hand on the back of the settee to steady himself as he leans in, deepening the kiss. 

When they pause for breath, Christopher’s hand slides across Paul’s chest down to his belt. It’s a familiar motion, and Paul’s body stirs in response, but he takes Christopher’s hand and brings it up to kiss the palm. Christopher tilts his head in silent inquiry. 

“Let me,” Paul says. “Take care of you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Christina Rosetti's "In the Bleak Midwinter."
> 
> Paul is remembering the end of the episode "The White Feather" in which he and Foyle have the kind of high-emotion handshake only two Englishmen can share. You can see gifs from the scene [here](http://britishdetectives.tumblr.com/post/86296995368/what-i-want-is-to-forget-all-this-happened-and) at BritishDetectives' Tumblr.
> 
> Thanks again to Crowgirl for letting me play in her sandbox, and for the beta.


End file.
